In Costa Rica
by Xinette
Summary: "You have this backwards," McLaughlin said. "Everything. You have it all backwards." He was a lithe man, looked to be in his mid-thirties. Schnabel leaned back in his chair. Outside, the afternoon rain started, and the frogs momentarily fell silent. "They are dangerous, aren't they?" Two men discuss the nations and history.


**A/N**: So this is technically part of a longer fic I'm writing for this fandom (and will start publishing soon; you'll see) but I think it works pretty well on its own. Thanks to APHTeavana for beta-reading that whole story and this chapter with it.

I'd like to say that someday I will write a story that's not about the HRE/Germany theory, but, right now, that seems pretty unlikely. Is it even a contested issue in this fandom anymore? Who knows?

"In Costa Rica"

"You have this backwards," McLaughlin said. "Everything. You have it all backwards." He was a lithe man, looked to be in his mid-thirties.

Schnabel leaned back in his chair. Outside, the afternoon rain started, and the frogs momentarily fell silent. "They are dangerous, aren't they?"

"But a lot of things are," McLaughlin said. "You and I are dangerous, to a spider or a fly or a mouse or even a great deal of people." He gestured broadly at the jungle on the other side of the railing. "I'm sure there are thousands of things out there that could kill you."

Schnabel lit a cigarette with a silver lighter, making brief eye contact with McLaughlin to show how little he cared.

"And you know what to do when you encounter a poisonous—sorry, I mean venomous—snake?" McLaughlin said.

Schnabel refused to play along with whatever he was saying.

"Well, what they told us in Wyoming was to leave it alone." He paused. "We're not worth their venom. They'll leave us alone if we leave them alone."

Schnabel sighed and took a drag of the cigarette. "So that's what you're telling me," he said.

McLaughlin started to nod passionately, as if Schnabel had finally started to agree with him.

"The only reason why Germany hasn't appeared behind me and stabbed me through the back yet is because I'm not worth his time."

McLaughlin leaned back into his chair. "Germany …" he started. "Look, they're just trying to live their lives, same as you or me."

"You don't understand," Schnabel said, taking in more of the cigarette. "They're not like you or me. They're not even people." He let out the smoke as he talked, a trick he'd learned back at medical school.

"Maybe not," McLaughlin said. "But that doesn't mean …"

"Doesn't mean what?" Schnabel asked, throwing the cigarette on the floor and putting it out with his foot. "One second you're comparing them to dangerous animals, the next you're saying they're just like you or me!"

McLaughlin stared at the cigarette on the ground. "I worked with America for many years, and I can tell you that they don't like killing people, especially their own citizens."

That was true. Schnabel still remembered the one morning he'd come into work early, to find Germany still sitting as his desk, eyes unfocused and rimmed with red, while he stared blankly at his right triquetrum. But Schnabel wasn't going to give him that, so he sighed. "America," he said. "Don't talk to me about America."

"You know," McLaughlin said. "That's why I am here." He focused his attention back at the cigarette on the floor of the porch. "When did you start smoking?"

Schnabel still remembered his first time, in the window well of the boarding school. It had just rained, and the hollow smelled like mud and tobacco. "A while ago," he said.

"The teens?" McLaughlin asked. "The nineteen teens?"

Schnabel always hated the name of that decade but nodded anyway.

"Almost one hundred years? And you've never developed lung cancer or anything?" McLaughlin asked.

Schnabel shook his head. Smoking didn't cause cancer, as unfashionable of an opinion as that was.

"I've—" he paused. "I was Alfred's—"

"Don't call him that," Schnabel said.

McLaughlin gave Schnabel a level, firm gaze. "I was America's advisor starting in the fifties," he said. "I remember, I'd just gotten back from Korea."

Schnabel leaned back. He didn't care about McLaughlin's life story.

"I'm still working," he said. "I was in my twenties then. Most of the people my age have retired." He paused. "That makes sense. They're in their seventies. They have," he gestured at his hair, which was mostly a dark black with a few grew strands mixed in, "grey hair, if any at all. And I don't."

He looked at Schnabel, expecting a response. Schnabel didn't dignify him with one.

"We didn't know, in the early days." He paused. "In America, at least. They figured it out faster in Germany because of his dogs. You know?" he looked Schnabel in the eye. "His dogs?"

Schnabel did remember the dogs. There were two of them, massive things. Very badly trained; Germany let jump all over him, and almost every part of his house was covered in dog hair. It seemed a bit absurd to Schnabel, to keep dogs and not have them work—but maybe that was just his country upbringing showing itself.

"Well, they've been alive since forever. People have records of one of them living with the Holy Roman Empire." McLaughlin studied Schnabel's face, trying to gauge his reaction. Schnabel made sure he was still hard to read. "We originally thought they were different dogs, naturally, but then it started to happen to me, too and we knew." He paused. "The nations are immortal. Their immortality rubs off on the living things closest to them. Dogs, birds, people—even plants."

Schnabel kept his gaze focused on the ground. He'd suspected as much.

"You worked with Germany for what—ten years? 1934 to 1945? Eleven? And now here you are, over one hundred years old, living in Costa Rica and still smoking cigarettes."

It was 1944, but there was no reason for him to correct him on that.

"Your wife died, right? Twenty years ago? She lived a long, good, human life."

"Don't bring her into this," Schnabel said.

"But she's at the center of this. Your kids, too." He paused. "They're the reason you started all of this," he motioned into the door, no doubt at the boxes of research on nations Schnabel had piled up over the past few years.

Schnabel said nothing. To do anything else would have been to betray his wife, in a sense.

Somehow, McLaughlin was on the edge of his seat again. "I feel sorry for you, really," he said. "With a top-secret position in the Nazi government—everyone must have assumed the worst."

They had. His children had stopped talking to him over it. One night, late, his daughter called, and said she would forgive him if he'd just told her what he'd done. "It's ridiculous," Schnabel said. "I never agreed with their racial ideology."

"OK," McLaughlin said. Then, after a moment's consideration, he asked: "How did you get the job then?" His hands tensed, the ends of his knuckles turning white.

"Politics is who you know, and I just knew the right people," Schnabel said and shrugged. "I also—well, it's easy to change your opinions when you realize they might be out for you. It wasn't like I could turn them down."

McLaughlin nodded. "I know—"

"You don't." Schnabel said. "And you don't really know what it is, and you have to choose between your family and keeping it a secret—"

"It's only natural that you'd start asking questions," McLaughlin said.

Schnabel sighed, relieved that McLaughlin seemed to understand at least some of it.

"So, what do you want to know," McLaughlin said. "I've spent my life studying this."

"And I can't?" Schnabel asked.

"No," McLaughlin said. "The government knows where I am. They know I won't betray their secrets. I liked Alfred too much anyway."

"The government knows where you are?" Schnabel asked.

Evidently, he saw where this was going. "Well—"

"They sent you here? This wasn't a personal call after all?" Schnabel asked.

"No, it was," McLaughlin said. "Same as I said earlier."

Schnabel continued to look at him levelly.

McLaughlin continued. "I noticed you were poking around in the files, and I came to talk to you about it." He paused, probably trying to think of another reason. "Besides, it's kind of a lonely position now." He paused again. "They have young people doing it, ones that want to be spies. Get them to do it for two or three years, and the slowed aging doesn't start to set in."

"And what if they want to be immortal?"

"Then they're not given the job,"

Schnabel weighed the options in his mind. He never trusted McLaughlin, but there was no reason for him not to take the opportunity to hear more about the nations. At the bare minimum, he could probably see if he was serious or not. "Prussia?" he asked.

"That's a hard one," McLaughlin said. "Because none of us really know. And it's not like he's willing to tell us." McLaughlin paused. "He's aging now that East Germany has disbanded. The government there adopted him as their personification." McLaughlin shrugged. "Before that, I don't really know. The kingdom of Prussia was disbanded in the eighteen somethings, right?"

Schnabel paused. McLaughlin was expecting a history lesson, wasn't he? "It—he—conquered the rest of the Germanic states in a series of wars ending with the Franco-Prussian War, 1871. That formed Germany." He paused again. "Prussia still existed for a while after that though, mostly as extra bureaucracy. Our government disbanded that."

McLaughlin nodded. "We don't really know how all of this works, after all. Nations have personifications, but so do states, or provinces or whatever they're supposed to be called. You would know that, dealing with Germany."

Schnabel didn't. That did make sense, though, if the German states did have personifications, Germany and Prussia would have wanted to keep them secret from the Nazis. "And you with America," he said.

McLaughlin smiled a weak, distant smile. "That was most of my job, actually. You wouldn't believe the kind of shit California and New Jersey could stir up."

Schnabel nodded, really having no idea what he was talking about.

"Anyway," McLaughlin said. "It's entirely possible that he represented the state (or province or whatever you call it) of Prussia during that time. Maybe when you disbanded it, he started aging and only reassumed nation status when East Germany was created."

"Prussia wasn't officially disbanded until 1947, by your people," he said.

"Or maybe that," McLaughlin said. "You wouldn't know if he was immortal when you were working with him, would you?"

Schnabel shook his head. "I only worked with Germany." It was true that Prussia and Schnabel tried to stay out of each other's way, as they both loathed each other.

McLaughlin nodded slowly, like that proved some grand point. "Anything else?—I mean, do you have any other questions?"

Schnabel ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. "Teleportation," he said.

McLaughlin shifted his weight. "That's another hard one to answer because none of us really know." He paused. "All of the nations have supernatural abilities—Germany's not special like that. Japan can read minds, America has super strength, etcetera. As far as I know, Germany has a supernatural ability to get lost. He can't control it."

Schnabel didn't want to dignify that with a response.

"So," McLaughlin said. "You were lost when you travelled with him, weren't you?"

They were lost in a sense, although Germany didn't make that clear to him until they were halfway through Siberia. And then again, didn't ask for directions until they were on Sumatra. "We were supposed to drive to Königsberg, but he somehow went to Sumatra instead." Schnabel said.

"Sumatra?" McLaughlin said. "Isn't that an island? You drove there?"

Schnabel shrugged.

McLaughlin nodded. "That's the way it is with Germany," he said. "All nations have a supernatural way to—"

"How do you know? Did you get lost with him?"

McLaughlin shook his head. "I never met Germany. Plenty of other nations, but not him."

"So they still have them meet with each other?" Schnabel asked.

McLaughlin laughed a little bit. "Oh, it's gotten worse. Now, in addition to meeting with each other on policy matters, they also meet as a whole world every month or so. It's chaos."

"I bet," Schnabel said, catching himself with a smile. This was ridiculous; he shouldn't let this American under his skin like that.

"You probably only met Austria, right? And the rest of the Axis? Maybe the conquered nations?" McLaughlin asked.

"I never met any of them," Schnabel said. "Like you, I only dealt with domestic matters." Germany had complained enough about Austria that he'd gotten a good feel for his personality. And had talked enough about Italy. And he'd heard enough officials complaining about Poland.

"I guess that makes sense," McLaughlin said. "And you were afraid of them."

"What did you just say? Japan can read minds?" Schnabel asked.

"Well, the minds of his citizens. And Italy's mind," McLaughlin said. "But that's not—"

"You don't really know, do you? About him or any of them? How do we know that Germany can't read minds? Or that Costa Rica doesn't hear what we're saying right now?" Schnabel asked. As if on que, the rain stopped, and the jungle fell silent for a moment before the frogs started up again. "They can feel who's in their territory." How else would he explain that time Germany came running into his office, panting something about _where is Austria_ and _he used to be in my territory but now I can't feel him anymore_ and _oh God what have they done to him_.

"That's not the point," McLaughlin said. "They don't want to bother you or anyone. They'll leave you alone if they can."

Schnabel sighed. "And how do you know that?"

"You're still alive, aren't you?"

Schnabel leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. "I've survived by being extremely vigilant."

"Well, I found you, didn't I?" McLaughlin asked.

Schnabel stood up. "I don't even know why I'm talking to you."

"All of the nations seem to have some mysterious way of travelling that gets them places faster than humans do," McLaughlin said. "It's not exactly teleportation, but many of them just kind of start driving and then end up where they're supposed to be going. It's hard to tell because they don't have the same perception of time as us."

"Am I supposed to feel safer because of that?" Schnabel asked.

"No," McLaughlin said. "It's the answer to the question you asked."

Schnabel sighed.

"I would like—I wanted to, back in the day, meet other people who had this job." McLaughlin said. "It's lonely."

"You're not talking to me because you're lonely," Schnabel said.

"No," McLaughlin said. "But that doesn't make it any easier. Now they just have young people doing it, and most of the people our age—immortality didn't treat them well, and most of them have lost their minds."

"You come all this way and then you call me crazy," Schnabel said.

McLaughlin sighed.

"Get out of my house," Schnabel said.

"One more question," McLaughlin said. "I'm sure there's something else you haven't been able to research."

That was true, as annoying as he was being. Schnabel sat back down. "The Holy Roman Empire," he said.

"That's another one that we don't know much about," McLaughlin said. "He used to own a house, lived there with Austria, Hungary and Italy. I don't think he ever aged above about ten years old, and he died in the Napoleonic Wars."

None of that information surprised Schnabel, even though he hadn't heard any of it before.

"Or so a lot of people think," McLaughlin said. "Some records seem to show that he survived the Napoleonic Wars, and died of disease in Prussia's house a few years later."

Evidently, there wasn't much to the story.

"But, you know what I think?" McLaughlin asked. "I think he lost his memory and came back as Germany."

"Why?" Schnabel asked, mostly offended that McLaughlin seemed to think he knew more about German history than Schnabel, especially after he'd asked him about Prussia.

"There are no records of Germany as a young child. Usually, nations appear out of the land, looking like toddlers but Germany appeared looking about ten years old."

"That's interesting, but it's hardly evidence."

"They look a lot like each other."

"But so do all of the Germanics," Schnabel said. There had been an oil painting hanging in one of the propaganda offices, with all of the countries labeled in red letters. Switzerland had his eyes and hair and Prussia his jawline. Lichtenstein and Belgium could be his sisters.

"I know, but they're practically identical," McLaughlin said. "All of the German states get pretty cagey when you ask about him, so that shows something. And they both had or have a relationship with North Italy."

"How do you know all of this?" Schnabel asked.

McLaughlin shrugged. "I made some preliminary calls to people in the German government, to prepare for meeting you," he said. "Besides, I've been studying this for years."

Schnabel paused for a long time. He didn't like this American. But, at the same time, his wife had died a long time ago, and moving every few years had shot his chances of even the most basic forms of connection with people. He'd spent much of the past seventy years thinking over that job. And there was one thing that had confused him more than any other. "Did America have any relationships like that?"

McLaughlin shook his head. "Sometimes he would flirt with England (or England would flirt with him) and he might have slept with Japan during the occupation, but no."

"That's kind of surprising," Schnabel said. Evidently, the kind of relationship there was between Italy and Germany was kind of unusual.

McLaughlin shrugged. "America's always been a bit isolationist."

So Schnabel was right. "The relationship between Italy and Germany, then, was just a metaphor."

"I would hesitate to say that," McLaughlin said. "They had a close relationship because their countries did, no doubt. But," he paused. "Don't assume that they can't feel love."

What was McLaughlin implying? "You mean to tell me," he started.

McLaughlin nodded, urging him to continue.

"That my country," and he did think of Germany as his country, despite everything, "is a homosexual?" he asked.

"I wouldn't focus too much on who the relationship was with," McLaughlin shrugged. "But, yeah," he said.

Schnabel leaned back into his seat. That explained why Germany hadn't wanted him to say anything about his relationship with Italy. Homosexuals were being arrested.

"But, I mean," McLaughlin said. "It's not like it really matters, does it?"

Schnabel had been terrified once he'd realized what Germany and Italy's relationship entailed. Mostly, he was worried Germany would figure out what he knew and kill him for it.

McLaughlin was still talking. "They love each other."

Germany had figured out what he knew. It wasn't immediately obvious to Schnabel, but it became so when Germany followed Schnabel around, never breaking eye contact with him. Unprompted, Schnabel had asked if their relationship only represented diplomatic ties, and Germany had assured him that it did.

"They're still together, you know. That's a long time, for nations or humans."

But what had he thought about it? He hadn't really processed the information. Germany did seem happier he'd just been with Italy. Or, at least, he took a break in his constant chain smoking. And, while Schnabel had never met the other nation, he seemed like a good match, based off what Germany's guards had said during that one trip. The idea that he was some kind of parent that had the ability to veto Germany's relationships came into his mind, and Schnabel almost started laughing.

McLaughlin was smiling.

"Alright," Schnabel said, the oddness of what he was saying finally striking him. Countries, able to fall in love with other countries?

"Yeah. It struck me as kind of weird in the beginning, too," McLaughlin said. "But if countries can feud with each other and hate each other, why not love as well?"

It was almost like McLaughlin was reading his mind. Like what he'd said about Japan and reading minds. "Humans can't pick up other abilities from nations, can they?"

"I don't know; have you gotten horribly lost recently?" McLaughlin asked.

He had, but that wasn't the point.

"It doesn't seem like it," McLaughlin said. "I haven't noticed any super strength abilities myself. With one exception, though, and that's that people like us seem to run into nations more frequently."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the nations have the ability to find each other easily, so they often run into each other, just randomly. I've noticed that's started to happen to me, too," McLaughlin said. "On the way here, I ran into Canada in the airport in America, and Mexico on my layover."

The only other nation Schnabel had met was Argentina, and he'd been sent to him by the Argentine government in their previous attempt to get him to stop researching the nations. He was tall, walked with grace and talked with the power of a government behind him. Schnabel had no desire to meet any others, which was part of the reason that encounter had him fleeing north. "That must be annoying,"

McLaughlin shrugged. "You get used to it. It's odd, in a way. I feel like I can easily tell if someone is a nation personification, even if I've never met him or her before."

Schnabel knew what he was talking about. He'd recognized Argentina long before he'd introduced himself.

"So?" McLaughlin asked. "Do you have any other questions?"

Romantic relationships would have been his last question, but that was answered now. Instead, he figured he might as well ask something that had been bothering him, even though he knew he wouldn't get a satisfying answer for it. "Why do they look like that?" Schnabel asked.

"Like what?"

"I mean, who chooses how they look?" Schnabel asked.

"God, I suppose," McLaughlin said. "Same as you or me. They do tend to look like their people, but not as an average or anything like that,"

Schnabel didn't say anything, and, for a moment, the only sound was the croaks of the frogs and the birdsongs of the jungle.

"That does bring up nation birth, though," McLaughlin said. "Nobody really knows how it happens, but usually when there's been some kind of political or social upheaval, a new child, usually covered in dirt, is found in a rural part of the area affected."

"Like Greek mythology," Schnabel said, remembering reading it one night by the light of a dim lamp. The rain was beating against the windowsill and the roof of his attic bedroom where he'd spent so many of his adolescent nights. That was such a simpler time in his life, with days of trotting through mud and no greater fear than tracking it in on the carpets.

McLaughlin stared at him, his face blank.

"Greek mythology holds that humanity was made out of clay," Schnabel said. "Maybe _they_ are."

Unexpectedly, McLaughlin laughed. "They are kind of like gods, of a sort, aren't they?" But then his face fell. "Not really, though, but maybe people back then saw it that way."

No photographs of the ancient nations existed, obviously, but Schnabel thought about how Ancient Greece had been described, with flowing, oil-black hair wrapped around a circlet. "OK," Schnabel said. "What about genders?"

McLaughlin sighed. "It seems that many of the ancient nations were female, and many of the modern ones are too—the really modern ones. It's hard to tell when nations were born, but," he shrugged.

Schnabel looked at him and wondered what that had to do with his question.

"It seems like they come in waves," McLaughlin said. "Right now, we're on a female nation wave. They're not absolute obviously (think about Hungary) but good as a rule."

"OK," Schnabel said. He tried to picture Germany as a girl but couldn't. "When did that start?"

McLaughlin shrugged. "It's hard to know because nations are born so infrequently, but it seemed to be around the nineteenth century."

"So only very recent nations?"

"Yes, but there aren't many," he paused. "North Korea, for example."

"But we really—" Wait. At what point had he and this American become part of a _we_? "don't know, do we?" he paused. "They can't represent ethnic groups, or else ones from thousands of years ago would still be alive. Like the Germanic states, for instance."

McLaughlin shrugged, and Schnabel realized his mistake. "Most of the Germanic states are still alive, even though their borders are different now. Westphalia, Rhineland and Palatinate are all still their own personifications, even though the states are now Rhineland-Palatinate and North Rhineland-Westphalia."

Schnabel nodded, pretending he already knew all of that information.

"That's states, though, and it's more complicated with nations. To my knowledge, there isn't a single nation that represents more than one country, although there are a few countries that are represented by more than one nation. Italy, for example."

Schnabel nodded. "And Germany," he added.

"Well, maybe. I suppose Prussia could just represent the Eastern regions of Germany, almost like a state, but," he shrugged, "I don't really know."

"You're very curious about Prussia, aren't you?" Schnabel asked, not really knowing why. He didn't want to help this American. "I've done a lot of research on him." Prussia was one of the only nations he'd gone out of his way to read more about than just getting a basic file on him. By now, he'd collected all of the ones on countries.

"His existence (or, rather, continued existence) does show something interesting," McLaughlin said.

"But you still don't know why that is?" Schnabel asked.

"No," McLaughlin said.

"You know, for someone who has studied this your entire life—" Schnabel started.

"Well, nations tend to be pretty cagey about their existence," McLaughlin interrupted. "I mean, who can blame them? Humans generally don't treat things they don't know very well with much respect, and it's probably the only reason they haven't ended up on a dissection table."

Well, Poland had, during the war. And Austria, too, probably. But now wasn't the best time to mention that. "I don't know," Schnabel said. "They're national symbols. Would their people treat them differently than how they treat flags? Or presidents?"

"But they're people, not flags," McLaughlin said. "And they're not like politicians because they have no power. You should—you do know that, I'm sure."

Prussia had complained to him, in one of their only conversations, about how sick he was of Germany getting too sick to work, and then Prussia having to fill in for him on whatever was making him sick.

"And, I mean, how do you think of them? You're afraid of them. People don't respond well to what they're afraid of."

The thought of Germany being dissected turned Schnabel's stomach. "Alright," he said.

McLaughlin nodded. "That's what I've been trying to tell you—you shouldn't be afraid of the nations because _the nations are afraid of you_."

Schnabel shifted in his seat. Germany had probably been afraid of him after he'd found out about his relationship with Italy. There was nothing stopping Schnabel for reporting him to the SS for homosexuality. Argentina, too, had not been too happy about his government sending him in to threaten Schnabel. "I guess," he said.

"You probably had more power in the German government than Germany ever has," McLaughlin said.

"They don't want to deal with humans," Schnabel said, remembering Argentina.

"No—well, not in a negative context, by any means. Most of them love interacting with their own citizens, but …" McLaughlin paused. "I think most of the problem is governments, really. They don't know what to do with this immortal personification of their people. Maybe it was easier, in the old days, when the nations just travelled with the court."

"It was," Schnabel said. Germany seemed perpetually unused to someone travelling with him. "I'm sure," he said. "I was there for the transition."

McLaughlin smiled weakly. "I was also America's first nation advisor, though other countries had them by then. And, I can tell you, he certainly wasn't used to the idea. Maybe it's different, for a democracy."

Germany's skepticism of him seemed to come from more than just unfamiliarity. "I wonder if they see us—saw us—as an agent of government control."

"Hmmm," McLaughlin said. "I always thought I was just there to help Alfred navigate the human world, but … maybe … you …"

Schnabel saw where he was going and cut in. "I thought the upper level party members were just trying to get rid of me," he said. "So they gave me a useless but dangerous job. But maybe Germany …"

"Saw it as them trying to control him," McLaughlin said. "That makes sense." And it explained why Germany had been so distrustful of him. "What did you do to upset them?"

Schnabel sighed. "I don't know—it was so hard to tell back them, since Operation Hummingbird had just happened—I didn't want to take any chances. I had never been as … passionate about their ideology as everyone else was at the time."

McLaughlin mouthed the word _operation_.

"The Night of the Long Knives?" Schnabel offered.

McLaughlin nodded. "I see how … you could think that. And how he could think that, too."

"But the nations still aren't too trustful, are they?"

McLaughlin shook his head. "I think it does make sense, given everything."

"I suppose," Schnabel said. "Maybe it would make sense just to go public with everything."

"That would just cause more fear, for the populace and for them. I think they're happy with their lives now, especially that they can see each other more frequently than they could before."

Schnabel had asked Germany how Austria was, expecting him to answer with the weather or the political situation. Instead, Germany had gotten upset and said that he'd seemed depressed. "You think they like seeing each other?" But, on the other hand, Germany had fallen in love with Italy.

"I think it's a lonely job," he looked at Schnabel and smiled. "Kind of like being a nation advisor. And they can better relate to each other than they can to us humans."

"It's not a job," Schnabel said. "Being a nation. It's their whole existence."

"Yes," McLaughlin said. "But I suppose that only makes it lonelier."

For a moment, the two of them sat in silence. The frogs' croaks sounded like a metronome, with the occasional bird calls adding in crescendos.

McLaughlin said, "Must have been hard, living with so many secrets. For you, I mean."

Schnabel wasn't going to respond but then changed his mind. "And for you, too, I mean."

"I know," McLaughlin said and sighed. "But I, at least, knew what I was getting into. You didn't. And I could have left if I wanted to. You couldn't." he paused. "And—these last sixty-five years—they must have been hard on you."

They were. Schnabel had no idea how much time he'd spent just ruminating on these things, how many nights he'd woken up in the middle of, expecting to see Germany in the corner of the room. His wife had died; his children had left him. "Yeah," he said.

"You've spent a lot of time just thinking these things over, haven't you?"

That had been his primary job for all of that time. He'd worked, occasionally, using the half-forgotten medical degree he'd never wanted in the first place, but even then he'd most just think about the job, deconstruct everything that had happened to him and Germany, analyze each and every of their moves. "Yeah," he said and sighed.

"That's not too much of a life, is it?" McLaughlin asked. "Being assigned to this job that you didn't want to do, anyway, and then spending years trying to figure out what it all meant. No, more than years. Decades. Your whole life, really."

It sounded pathetic, when he said it like that. Schnabel sighed again.

"Why don't you just … let it all go?" McLaughlin said.

"What?" Schnabel said. "There is more to learn about …"

"Well, do you have any more questions?" McLaughlin asked.

Schnabel didn't, so he didn't say anything in response.

"Then, what other reasons are there for doing it?"

"I've spent a lot of time on it," Schnabel said. "This would make it all for nothing."

McLaughlin sighed. "You have spent a lot of time on it," he said. "I don't know how much time it must have taken to collect information on all the nations of the world. You've spent a lot of time thinking about this job you took when you had no choice. You've wasted much of our life on it, when you could have been watching your children grow up, growing old with your wife."

Schnabel sighed.

"It was a very long time ago," McLaughlin said. "Look," he pointed out at the jungle that surrounded them. "You live in a beautiful place now. Why can't you just enjoy that?"

Schnabel looked over the jungle. The sun was just beginning to set, the tops of the trees were lit up like emeralds.

He had spent a lot of time thinking about that job. For the first few years, he'd tried to forget about it, but his mind just couldn't move on. The whole thing had felt like a bizarre dream, so he started to look into it. But then the Argentine government had found out and sent their nation personification after him. The whole family had fled to Costa Rica in the middle of the night. His research was the only reason he was in this beautiful place to begin with.

But it was true that almost all the major decisions he'd made for the past sixty-five years had been based on that. It was exhausting, just thinking about all of the things he had done to keep it all secret. Maybe it was time to take a break from that. "Alright," he said.

McLaughlin smiled. "Alright," he said, probably very pleased to finally be getting what he came there for. "You should give your research to me."

"Why?" Schnabel asked.

"I've got a job, teaching at a small university in Arizona," McLaughlin said. "I can keep it safe."

McLaughlin would probably just give his research to the American government anyway.

Instead, Schnabel stood up and walked into the entryway of his house. The whole front hallway was covered in files of varying lengths—about two hundred of them, each labeled with a country name in thick marker strokes, He took the one that was labelled _PRUSSIA_ from a stack near the door. Schnabel walked back outside and put the box at McLaughlin's feet. "Here," he said. "I'll destroy the rest of it. I'm sure it's stuff you know anyway."

McLaughlin thought about this for a while, staring at the box. "Alright," he said. "Thank you."

Schnabel smiled. "It was nice to meet you,"

"Yeah," McLaughlin said. He pulled a small card out of his pocket and wrote a number on it, adding an _01_ to the front. "If you think of anything else, you can call me."

"Alright," Schnabel said, taking the card from McLaughlin.

They said their goodbyes to each other, and Schnabel watched as McLaughlin's form receding down the winding front path to the main road.

For a moment, Schnabel looked out at the jungle, noticing the red and orange rays streak across the canopy. Then, he headed back inside to the black landline phone which was attached to the wall.

He called his daughter, but she didn't pick up, so her slow, syrupy voice told him to leave a message after the tone. He told her that he'd done some reflecting, and he wanted to talk to her about his life. Before he finished the message, he already was formulating the explanations and lies he'd tell her.

**A/N**: I got the name Schnabel from the works of Cameron Kennedy (on FFN). I think _This Hurricane _is still one of the best pieces of fanfiction I have ever read.

It's weird because nation advisors seem to be a thing that everyone accepts despite there being nothing about them in canon. I got a lot of headcanons about nation advisors from neioo's stories (on AO3). Her Are We Humans series is really good.

The tumblr blog ellawritesficssometimes also helped a lot with the headcanons for this story. Yes, it is actually canon that humans that spend too much time with the nations will become immortal and go crazy.

When I was writing this, I discovered that Latin Hetalia is the best thing ever.

What Schnabel refers to (well, one of the things) is that the pre-Nazi German president was kind of a replacement Kaiser. Therefore, I headcanon that the German bros were with the Kaiser, and then the Weimar president without much of a change in their roll or position. Obviously, this would be different with America, due to the fact that the head of state and government are the same person.

The reason Germany would keep the German states secret from the Nazis is that they were nationalists, and, as such, disbanded pretty much all of the local governments in Germany. Notably Prussia. 1947 was the last year Prussia appeared on maps because the Allies decided to do it in for good.


End file.
